


Half empty

by marysutherland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Acts Meme, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg and John's attempts to trap Colonel Moran go horribly wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half empty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariadnes_string](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/gifts).



> This fic contains **dub-con** and there are also minor spoilers for _The Reichenbach Fall_
> 
> Originally written for [aridanes-string](http://ariadnes-string.livejournal.com/) and a [Five Acts Meme](http://ariadnes-string.livejournal.com/128641.html) asking for "Fuck or Die". Betaed by the wonderful [Zauzat](http://zauzat.livejournal.com/).

  
Their plan to capture Colonel Moran had gone wrong, of course. But that's the problem with being the B team, Greg thinks, no longer having Sherlock to advise them. John and him had worked out there were two entrances to the house at 220 Baker Street. They hadn't spotted the third way in via the roof, so Moran had been able to double back and get them in his sights. And so here they are, held captive in an unoccupied house by a madman with a private arsenal.

"It could be worse," John says, checking round the bare room yet again. "At least we're still alive."

"Sit down," Greg tells him. "You need to save your energy." He's sitting on the floor himself, resting against one wall, making himself as comfortable as his handcuffs will allow.

"If I sit down, I'll stiffen up," John protests. _He_ tried to fight Moran, silly bugger, and nearly got himself shot. In fact he's lucky to have got away with a black eye and several kicks in the ribs, Greg reckons.

"If I can just get some leverage on the cuffs–" John goes on.

"You'll break something. Probably a bit of you." There are people Greg's met who can escape from speedcuffs; he's not one of them, and he doubts John is. "There's nothing we can do till Moran comes back."

His friend turns to look at him. "If you get the chance, Greg, make a run for it. Don't worry about me, I can look after myself."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Greg growls. The last thing he needs now is John being heroic. "I'm staying with you. I'm not outliving you as well as Sherlock."

Wrong thing to say, he realises, as John's chin goes up.

"Sherlock isn't dead!" he almost shouts.

The old argument again. They've had it a lot in the past three years.

"You saw him die yourself."

"There have been sightings."

"None of them reliable."

"What about Abdul Khan? He knows Sherlock well."

"Millions of people on the hajj and he just happens to run into Sherlock in disguise in Mecca?" Greg replies. "He made a mistake."

"And the reports from France?" John demands. His eyes are scanning the ceiling now, as if he imagines he can break out there.

"I've talked to the _Police nationale_ , I've talked to Interpol, I've talked to every French contact I have. The trail just vanishes."

John's glaring at him now, turning into the small concentrated force of anger Greg remembers from the months after Sherlock's suicide.

"But you know he's alive, don't you? You can _feel_ he's alive. And Mycroft could have fixed the death. He's juggled round with corpses often enough."

Greg's own anger is rising now, after so long forcing it down, being reasonable. How the fuck could Sherlock have done this to them, to John?

"It's _possible_ ," he says. "Anything's possible with bloody Sherlock. But there's nothing we can do about it now. What matters is getting out of here alive. So come and sit down and stop wearing yourself out."

John lets out a long, shuddering breath, and then comes and slowly, carefully, sits down beside Greg. Then his head slumps down.

"You OK?" Greg mutters, but before John can answer, they hear the door opening. The blond, burly figure of Moran walks in, a thug barely disguised by the Armani suit. Though just about everyone looks more like a thug when holding a pistol, Greg reckons.

"So Sherlock Holmes is alive," Moran says. "I thought you two might know something."

"Shit," Greg breathes; he should have guessed that the room might be bugged.

John's head stays down and he says nothing, but there's something about his very stillness that suggests a lack of surprise. _He_ had worked out that Moran might be listening in, hadn't he, Greg realises. And decided it was safer to let Moran find out at once how little they knew.

"We dunno where he is," Greg says, staring up at Moran, and John's knee presses briefly against his, accompanied by a flicker of a smile. _I'm on the right track_ , he thinks, and goes on: "But I put in a request for an exhumation more than a year ago and it's been repeatedly blocked. Someone's keen to keep Sherlock dead and buried."

"Do you think he'd tell us if he was alive?" John says bitterly, raising his head. "He didn't trust us enough to tell us anything."

Moran smiles a toothy, brutal smile. "I'm not going to have a problem finding him now, though, am I? Now I've got _bait_."

_So that's why we're still alive_ , Greg thinks. _Though for how much longer, God alone knows_.

John stands up awkwardly, levering his body up against the wall, and then walks towards Moran, staring up at the huge man.

"Let DI Lestrade go," he says. "He's far more likely to be missed than I am, and I'm bait enough for Sherlock."

"Very noble," Moran says, still smiling, "but I need both of you for my little message. You're quite sure you don't know how to contact Holmes?"

John shakes his head.

"Then we're back to the wonders of the internet," Moran announces cheerfully. "Isn't it amazing that there are a billion things on it, and yet a clever man, whether he's in Lhasa or London, can find the exact one that's of interest to him. Like a video of you two having sex together."

"What?" Greg demands.

"You heard what I said," Moran drawls. "That's my message to Sherlock. Don't you think he'll want to come and investigate, find out what you two are playing at?"

_He'll certainly suspect something's wrong_ , Greg thinks. Whereas if anyone at the Met hears about the video, they'll just presume Lestrade's having some kind of mid-life crisis and hush up his disappearance. It's a clever move by Moran.

"Suppose we don't want to play?" John asks. He looks tiny next to Moran, but his voice is calm.

"You don't need your toes to fuck, do you? You don't even both need to be alive."

Moran's clearly as warped as his boss was, and probably just as deadly. John looks round at Greg, his face stiff, closed.

"Greg?" he asks. It's not quite a plea, but if Moran's out to threaten Sherlock, it's obvious who he's going to harm first. And Greg knows he can't let John get hurt again.

He nods and John turns back to Moran. "We'll need the handcuffs off," he announces.

"Oh, I'm not letting you loose," Moran says. "You're far too eager for a fight. But don't worry, you don't need to do anything. What I want is Lestrade to fuck you, Dr Watson."

Greg's stomach lurches and he can't help letting out a groan. John's prepared to shag almost anyone, with enough incentive, but he's not sure he can... Well, he's going to have to try, isn't he?

" _I_ definitely can't do it in handcuffs," he says, trying to sound nonchalant. "I'm a bloody fifty-year old. Don't worry about me escaping. I'll have to lie down and have a rest afterwards." Their chances are fractionally better if one of them is uncuffed and they need every advantage they can get.

"Come over here," Moran says. "Slowly."

It's an easy instruction to follow, given how wobbly Greg's legs are feeling. He stands beside John and holds out his hands to Moran, trapped apart by the rigid cuffs. Easy for Moran to use them to throw him against the wall, if he cares to. Or push him towards John, knock them both over. But instead Moran barks:

"Dr Watson, go and kneel in the corner. Facing the wall."

John walks away, back soldier-straight, and Moran holsters his gun. Greg wonders how quickly he can draw it again. But even unarmed, Moran's got nothing to fear from him; the man's solid muscle. Moran removes the cuffs from him and Greg rubs at the sore spots on his wrists. He prays John is in his corner, not doing anything stupid. Probably best to get Moran out of the way before anything goes wrong.

"You go and watch your cameras," he tells Moran as confidently as he can. "You'll put me off, otherwise."

Moran smiles.

"Let me know if you need some Viagra," he says, and heads for the door.

Greg hears it lock firmly behind him and takes a deep breath. Then he walks to the corner where John is now standing up, his arms awkwardly braced against the wall in front of him. He doesn't look round as Greg approaches.

Greg places himself behind the other man and bends to whisper in his ear:

"We don't have to do this."

"He's not bluffing," John says. "He's as unstable as Moriarty is, and _he_ blew up a tower block for fun."

"John–"

"I've been shot, Greg, and strapped in a bomb jacket, and I've watched my best friend jump off a four-storey building. A bit of rough sex is nothing." Suddenly John leans back, and Greg's hand instinctively come up to hold his shoulders, stop him falling. Feels the solid warmth of his tense body.

"Whatever happens," John says in a taut voice, "it's OK. We're still friends, right?"

"Yeah."

John turns then, to stare with determination at Greg. "So the first thing we do is shut our eyes, turn our brains off and snog."

***

John's idea of snogging seems to involve trying to wear away their lips by sheer force; Greg can't remember the last time he's been so thoroughly kissed. And, yeah, it does start doing bloody stupid things to his body. He realises after a few minutes that one of his hands is stroking John's hair.

"John?" he mutters, and John's eyes, dark and grey, flick open for a moment. They look unfocussed, as if he's not properly awake.

"S'OK," he says, "don't worry." And then his eyes are closing again and he's reaching up, attacking Greg's mouth, pressing his tongue against the line of Greg's lips this time. And also somehow managing to thumb one of Greg's nipples through his shirt, which is pretty bloody impressive while wearing handcuffs.

What with that and the kissing, Greg can feel himself starting to get hard. Which is the point, of course, but it's still all wrong. Only somehow, despite that – because of that – he can't stop it. It's as if the wiring in his brain has been reversed and he wants something – someone – he knows he's never supposed to have. His body presses against John's, even as his mind is warning him not to.

John breaks off the kiss abruptly and murmurs:

"Time for battle." And then he says, in the officer's voice that brooks no argument: "Get your kit off."

"John?"

"I'll give you oral to start you off. We need all the lubrication we can get. Any better suggestions?"

"No...but you don't have to."

"If Moran doesn't get enough of a show, he'll want someone's blood," John says, and then he swallows and weariness comes into his eyes. "I've seen too many people die and we're not going to join them."

"What's the best position for you?" Greg asks, because that's the one thing he can do. Try and keep John safe, even as he knows he's going to have to hurt him. He must be aching and tired enough already. Moran's stacked the handcuffs, so John's hands are facing in opposite directions, and he can't rest one without pulling at the other. They have to do this quickly, and rely on adrenaline to keep them going.

"Kneeling's easiest," John says, and Greg helps him down, and then rapidly pulls off his own shoes, trousers and pants. He keeps his shirt on, because that somehow means he's got a trace of dignity left; no Peeping Toms on the internet get to snigger at his lack of a six-pack.

"What now?" he says, trying to sound calm.

"Don't fall over and tell me when to stop," John replies. "And suck your fingers. You'll need to start me off with them."

He feels John's mouth close gently over his cock; his own mouth is dry but he works his throat, trying to get some saliva flowing, and then sticks a couple of fingers in his mouth, like some weird cigarette substitute. He starts to suck them and realises he's mimicking the rhythm of John's mouth, a rhythm that is sparking every nerve in his own body. He wants this; it's shameful how much he wants this. It's been so long since anyone has done this to him, for him...

He can suddenly feel how near the edge he is, and he drags his fingers from his mouth and yells "Stop" just in time. John's mouth comes off him, but John doesn't look up. Instead, he shuffles back on his knees and then bends to rest his arms on the carpet, obviously trying to find a position he can brace himself in.

"You OK?" Greg says, and wonders why he bothers asking. Of course John isn't OK, but there's nothing he can do or say that will help. There's no reply from John, and Greg goes to kneel behind the smaller man, his legs straddling him. Then he reaches round, very cautiously, for John's flies.

"Say if you need me to stop," he says, and wishes to God he can be sure he'll do this right.

"Take it slowly," John says, and his voice now has the focused concentration of someone instructing a rather dim medical student. "Fingers in the anus first, then just the tip of your erection. So my sphincter muscles have time to adjust."

Greg unzips John's jeans and pulls them down, then his boxers. He's not surprised by now that John's half hard. Doesn't mean he's enjoying himself. Once the pale skin of John's muscular arse is revealed, Greg spits yet again on his hand, and then his fingers trace down between John's buttocks, spreading them.

He tried anal sex with his wife once, years ago, and she practically screamed the house down with pain. He suspects John won't scream, but part of him is still terrified, half-remembered warnings about safe sex floating back into his mind. But then you can't get any less safe sex than having a psychopath with a gun watching you. John must reckon it's OK, and since Moran _is_ watching, they daren't try and fake anything. Greg puts his fingers cautiously on John's arsehole, rubs it, starts to press in. John gives a soft sigh and says in a shaky voice, slightly muffled by the carpet: "That's right. A tiny bit further and then stop."

***

After a couple of minutes, Greg's world narrows to the strange sensations: the brush of his bare legs against the carpet, the sweat trickling down inside his shirt; John's carefully controlled voice telling him to push or to stop. There's no room for panic or emotion any more than there'd be when you're resuscitating someone or running an evacuation procedure. But then John tells him to pull his fingers out, and he knows what is coming next. It shouldn't make any difference, but it does. He tugs at his cock, his erection rapidly returning and he knows this is where he to accept the impossible. That he wants this; that maybe he's always wanted this. That Moran has somehow seen something in him that he didn't know was there himself.

"I'm sorry," he says, and John doesn't reply. Then Greg puts the glistening head of his cock against John's arsehole and pushes in slowly.

It feels _good_ : warm, inviting. Not just good – thrilling, what his body has longed for. He puts his hands on John's hips, pulling him back. John gives a tiny gasp of what might be pleasure or pain or both, his internal muscles clenching. Greg feels it and suddenly there's nothing left but that, the need that is flooding him.

His body starts thrusting – a slamming, gasping, unstoppable rhythm. His heart is pounding and this is probably going to kill him, and it doesn't matter. John's not telling him to stop, and it feels beyond control now, anyhow, to his hormone-laden brain. His orgasm rushes onto him, and he shouts something meaningless as he comes. Then he slumps forward, almost collapsing onto John's jumpered back.

_Mustn't do that_ , he thinks and forces himself to concentrate. Pulls out slowly and then kneels dizzily with his eyes shut, trying to work out what to do next. There are tissues in his trousers; he can clean himself up with those. As for John...

He can hear John's breathing, nearly as loud and fast as his own. When Greg opens his eyes, John is still crouched on the carpet, unmoving, staring at the floor. Trying to recover, start functioning again.

Greg looks away. John probably wants a few moments of privacy, to hide away from him. Oh God, and the bloody cameras. Well, if it's not what Moran wanted, he shouldn't have used amateurs. He stands up, finds his trousers, cleans himself up, gets dressed. He feels calmer than he ought to, but that probably just proves how screwed up he is.

When he turns round, John is up on his knees, and has somehow managed to pull his boxers up. His hands are shaking in the cuffs and Greg tries to remember the maximum length of time it's safe to keep someone in them. He walks round in front of John.

"Do you need help?" John looks up with the desperate face of someone in the midst of yet another battle.

"Not sure I can stand up on my own," he says. Greg puts his hands under his armpits and helps lift him slowly to his feet. John's jeans fall round his ankles and Greg bends to pull them up.

"Don't tell me you want a cigarette now," John says, as Greg fastens his jeans for him. "That'd be really unsafe sex." It's a feeble joke, but Greg smiles anyhow, and then straightens and puts his hands back under John's arms, steadying them.

"That bastard Moran confiscated my lighter," he tells John, and what's almost a smile crosses John's face briefly.

There's a noise from behind Greg's back: the door opening. That bastard Moran is back, no doubt. John looks past Greg, towards the door, makes a strange kind of groaning noise and collapses.

He does it quite slowly, his legs simply folding up, so Greg has time to break his fall, help him down to the floor. He crouches beside him, feeling for John's pulse.

"Help me raise his legs," he yells to the man he can hear approaching from behind. "He's not faking it, he's really fainted."

"I know," says a familiar, unfamiliar voice, as Sherlock comes to kneel beside him, his gloved hand reaching to reposition John's head.

Greg doesn't collapse; he hasn't got anywhere to collapse _to_. He just kneels there on the floor and gawps at Sherlock. Or possibly a Sherlock-shaped hallucination.

"You're alive," he croaks at last.

"Obviously," Sherlock replies, and OK, that means it's not a hallucination, it's Sherlock in all his obnoxious glory. His fingers are now skilfully attacking the handcuffs, and with a flourish, he pulls them off John's limp hands.

"I've been on Moran's trail for several weeks now," Sherlock adds, "but I only found out where he was hiding last night. If I'd realised you two idiots were going to try and break into his headquarters–"

"When you realised he'd caught us, why the fuck didn't you call the police?"

"They'd doubtless have wasted my time, wanting to arrest me for something. Besides, I hardly thought I needed them. But Moran's a crack shot, so I had to wait till I was sure he was distracted."

"You've got him?"

"I finally got my chance quarter of an hour ago. He seemed to be fascinated by your _performance_ , didn't hear me coming till it was too late."

_Moran's caught, Sherlock's alive. We're safe, we're all safe_ , Greg thinks. Then _quarter of an hour_ finally registers in his weary brain.

"You bastard!" he yells. "You didn't think to come and tell us?"

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, puzzled, before resuming his inspection of John's wrists.

"John finds it very embarrassing when I interrupt him in the middle of sex," he says, and Greg stares at him, because God, he really is that clueless. But Sherlock's also saved John – and him – from whatever nasty surprise Moran was planning next. It's all over now. They're free.

And it doesn't matter what Sherlock's done, he knows, because John's eyelids are starting to flutter. When he comes to, it'll be Sherlock he wants. It's always been Sherlock he wants.

"Get him some water," Sherlock says. "There's a bathroom down the corridor."

"Get it yourself," Greg snaps, and sets off, slowly but doggedly, to walk out of the almost empty house.


End file.
